Mean Something
by onemediumdrip
Summary: Post 5.10 He had taken comfort in the fact that he and Dean, together, would face down Lucifer and kill him, or die trying. But neither was the case. They had failed. Ellen and Jo sacrificed themselves for nothing.


A/N: This isn't really anything special. I just had the urge to write a tag to this phenomenal episode, and this is what came out. I have no beta, and I wrote this in about two hours.

The silence in the house was nothing short of deafening. Since the brothers arrived on Bobby's front porch earlier that night, hardly a word had been exchanged.

Dean had immediately slumped onto the couch in the living room and fell into a restless sleep. Meanwhile, Sam quietly sat down beside Bobby and explained what had transpired. Bobby's eyes glistened with tears as Sam told the story, and once Sam had finished, Bobby wheeled himself down the hallway and into his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

With his brother sleeping and Bobby grieving, Sam took it upon himself to straighten up the house as much as he could. He longed to sleep like his brother, to just collapse on a bed, a couch, chair,_anything_, but since his encounter with Lucifer, he was feeling jittery and out-of-sorts. The thought that Lucifer could visit him in his dreams terrified him, and that, coupled with the loss of Ellen and Jo that was still fresh in his mind, was enough to persuade him to avoid sleeping and dreaming for a while.

So Sam started cleaning.

He walked around the living room, picking up beer bottles, stepping over piles of books, and making his steps light so as not to disturb Dean in his slumber. He did take the time to pull out the blanket from behind the couch and drape it across his brother.

He ended up making several trips around the house, collecting bottles, straightening stacks of books, organizing papers that were strewn across tables, doing everything possible to avoid that table in the kitchen covered with shot glasses.

The cleaning was certainly helping him by keeping his mind off the night's events, but as he chucked the rest of the bottles in the trash, he realized that he couldn't avoid the table any longer. If he was too much of a coward to go over there, Dean or Bobby would have to do it, and Sam didn't want to inflict that upon them.

With a lump in his throat, Sam slinked over to the kitchen table. The bottle of whiskey was still sitting there, three-fourths empty and surrounded by shot glasses still dripping booze. The glasses and the bottle were all pushed to the side of the table, Sam noticed, because sitting in the center was the picture.

The picture the six of them had taken the night before; the last night they would ever be together.

Sam's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the photograph, his hand shakily reaching forward to grab it. Still trying to avoid thinking of the two women in the photo, Sam looked at Bobby's grim expression as he sat in his wheelchair; to Castiel standing on the other side, nose in the air; to Dean and himself, their arms on each other's shoulders.

Pulling in a shuddering breath, his eyes were reluctantly drawn to Ellen standing in the center, straight-backed and proud. He searched out Jo next, who stared resolutely at the camera from under Dean's strong arm.

The family picture.

Sam unsteadily sat down on a nearby chair, all thoughts of cleaning up the shot glasses forgotten. He still couldn't really believe that Ellen and Jo were gone. Just last night, the two of them were playing a drinking game with Cas, right at that very table. And now, only a day later, both of them were gone, not even with bodies left to give a proper hunters' send-off.

Sam set the picture back on the table and buried his face in his hands. Taking deep breaths, he attempted to pull himself together. He didn't have time to grieve. He needed to finish his cleaning then start doing some research.

The Colt didn't work. After all that work of tracking the gun down, the Colt failed to kill the Devil. And they were screwed, unless Sam could calm down and start looking for an answer.

But he couldn't seem to make himself move. His eyes were glued to the photograph before him, his hands shaking, stray tears trailing down his face.

He had no idea how long he sat there. Thoughts of Jo facing down that Hell Hound to save Dean, of her telling them to leave her behind, Ellen staying back to give Sam and Dean more time, the building exploding…

He had taken comfort in the fact that he and Dean, together, would face down Lucifer and kill him, or die trying.

But neither was the case.

They had failed.

Ellen and Jo sacrificed themselves for nothing.

And the future looked darker than ever before.

No matter how many times Sam told himself that he won't say "yes" to Lucifer, the fact that Lucifer is so sure he would was terrifying.

Everyday it looked more and more like it would be between Sam and Dean in the end. Sam couldn't imagine anything worse.

The grim thought crossed Sam's mind that maybe it was best that Ellen and Jo died when they did. They didn't have to witness the full repercussions of Sam's unforgivable mistake.

What everything came down to was that all that had happened was Sam's fault. He started this whole mess, and he was too incompetent to fix it. And because of that, those that he loved got hurt or killed.

He continued to stare at the photograph, dark thoughts racing through is brain. Silently grieving, a few more tears fell, but Sam was too wrapped up in his thoughts to wipe them away.

He was so immersed in his own mind that he didn't even hear Dean get up from the couch and wander into the kitchen. Only when a heavy hand landed on his left shoulder did Sam notice.

Jumping slightly, Sam finally tore his gaze from the photograph to his brother's face. Dean still looked rather tired, his lips set in a firm line, and his eyes filled with sadness and grief.

Dean must have seen similar in Sam's eyes because he squeezed his shoulder before moving to sit next to his brother at the table. Dean shifted his chair so that it was unusually close to Sam's, their legs brushing lightly as they sat beside each other.

"How are you doing?" Dean asked gruffly.

Sam thought for a second, then muttered, "Been better. You?"

"Same."

Dean huffed out a short laugh then picked up the picture in front of Sam.

Sam watched the emotions play out on his brother's face as he looked at the photo; sorrow and grief, followed by a slight, saddened amusement.

He said, "I can't believe this was just last night. How can so much happen in a day?"

Sam sighed and responded, "Yeah."

Dean set the picture down again and turned to Sam.

"What are you thinking about?"

Sam looked Dean in the eye and replied, "Honestly? That I have no clue how we're gonna beat this. Lucifer's so sure that I'll let him in; he's even got the time and place pretty much narrowed down. And –" Sam broke off, breaking the eye contact with his brother.

Dean asked, "And what?"

Sam just shook his head.

Dean looked down at his hands folded on the table.

"About Ellen and Jo, right? You're thinking that they died for nothing?"

Sam turned his head and stared open-mouthed at his brother. _How did he know?_

Dean sighed deeply and answered Sam's unasked question, "I've been thinking it, too. But the more I think about it, I don't think they did."

More than a little confused, Sam blurted, "But we didn't kill Lucifer! The Colt didn't work! They died trying to give us time to get to him, and we failed!"

Dean shook his head sadly and looked back up to meet his brother's eyes. "No, Sam. They didn't die to give us time. They died protecting their family." Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean continued, "Think about it. Jo was attacked saving me—" Sam ignored the way Dean's voice cracked on that last word—"and Ellen died protecting us, yes, but mostly to be there for Jo. It wasn't about Lucifer. It was about family. And it's up to us to make their deaths mean something. We stick together to the end. Who cares what that stupid fallen angel says, Sam. He doesn't know us."

Dean's words brought a lump to Sam's throat again, and Sam turned his gaze back to the table. As he watched his fidgeting hands for a couple minutes, he mulled over what his brother had said.

"Maybe you're right."

Sam looked at Dean again just in time to see his small smile before he said, "I'm always right, Sammy."

The edges of Sam's mouth turned up a bit. "Sure, Dean."

Dean clapped his brother on the back then reached for the bottle of whiskey and two clean shot glasses. He poured a finger of whiskey each and set one in front of Sam.

Sam and Dean both raised their glasses and proclaimed, "To Ellen and Jo."

After knocking back their drinks, the brothers sat at the table for a few more moments, mirroring the other's position perfectly; hands clasped, head bowed, and legs nearly touching.

Finally, Dean stood up and said, up, "All right. Enough of that. Let's finish cleaning up around here and get some more sleep."

Nodding, Sam started picking up some of the shot glasses, his heart feeling lighter than it had in a while.

Later that day, when Bobby emerged from his room, the three of them gave the Harvelle's a proper hunter's funeral the only way they knew how.

The picture, the only picture of the six of them together, was burned in the fireplace. The three of them watched silently, grieving the loss of the two bravest women they had ever known.

Their loss was a tough one to bear, and it would be difficult to get over, but as Sam watched the photograph burn away in the fire, he realized that Dean had a point.

In order to survive the Apocalypse, they needed to rely on each other more than ever. Lucifer was doing his best to tear them apart, but Sam knew that they had to follow the example of Ellen and Jo Harvelle.

Fight to save each other at all costs, and, should they fail, stick with each other.

Until the end.


End file.
